


cashmere, baby

by okuyasimp



Category: Shingeki no Kyojin | Attack on Titan
Genre: Alcohol, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, F/M, Fluff, Friends to Lovers, Implied Sexual Content, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-01-26
Updated: 2021-01-26
Packaged: 2021-03-12 11:35:24
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,903
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29009889
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/okuyasimp/pseuds/okuyasimp
Summary: it's jeans birthday. in between deafening bass and whispering hearts you offer him the sweetest of gifts.
Relationships: Jean Kirstein/Reader
Comments: 2
Kudos: 37





	cashmere, baby

**Author's Note:**

> this fic is 100% me trying to escape the rona blues. smh. i originally wrote this about a year ago with a different fandom in mind so at this point changing the love interest to jean is pure self-indulgence and i am NOT ashamed of myself
> 
> cross-posting soonish on my tumblr @rohanclub!

Falling in love was a process.

Knowing it was going to happen never seemed to make it any less frightening.

To Jean, it feels like a dentist’s appointment he never shows up to, one that he keeps pushing back, back, further back. It feels uncomfortable, painful, but somehow it doesn’t seem to stress him out as much as actually having to face his fears—he manages to convince himself that he’s alright being your friend, that he’s alright only meeting you for coffee and study dates and movie nights, that he’s alright watching you hold other people’s hands and kiss lips that aren’t his.

He manages, at least for a while, a few years, maybe. He manages until you appear to knock at the door to his daydreams every week, cautious yet intrusive, and he can’t help but invite you in, can’t help but offer you a place to sleep somewhere in between the nooks and crannies of silent thoughts.

He’s there after your first breakup, first _bad_ breakup, he’s there to order pizza and talk shit about your previous partners, he’s there to swipe through your Tinder weeks later—if only to mess around with the people you match. He laughs the whole time while he does it, and somehow it all seems to make you laugh, too.

He doesn’t expect you to be the one to kiss him first. He doesn’t really expect it to happen, ever, doesn’t even expect it when you’re pressed up against him the night before his birthday, with flushed skin underneath strobing lights and your fingertips pushed below the collar of his shirt.

In retrospect, he doesn’t remember how it really comes to be—all he remembers is how you’d called him earlier that day, with your voice drowning in tears and your breathing heavy, how you’d told him that your partner had cheated on you again. He remembers how it had felt to hold you an hour later, how you’d only calmed down after he’d ranted that they didn’t deserve you, how _nobody_ would ever deserve you, remembers how he’d poured you your first drink at four in the afternoon. How you’d downed it right there in front of him, and how attractive you’d looked doing so.

He would’ve liked to kiss you then and there.

Being touched by you feels different now, all the way down here, tucked away in the basement of the club. It feels different when you hold onto his forearm, when you lace your fingers with his only to let go again two seconds later. You’ve touched him before, of course, but it was always more playful in nature—innocent, even. Whether it was the tips of your fingers nipping at his own after lending him your umbrella or him picking some lint off your favourite sweater, none of it has really made his stomach twist before, none of it has made his face feel hot, none of it has ever made him think that _God, you might actually want him too._ It’s the way you turn your chin upwards, the way you smile at him, with red and blue and green reflecting off the tip of your nose, your eyes, your _lips_ , that has him biting the inside of his cheek, his composure wavering.

He tries not to think about the fact that you’re heartbroken when you finally lean upwards, brush your mouth against his own ever so sweetly. He tries not to think about the fact that you’re upset over some other person he’s never liked, because he knows they never treat you the way that he would, he tries not to think about how you’re probably still imagining someone else’s lips up on your own as you kiss him. Just for a moment, he tries not to think at all.

Instead, Jean decides to pull you closer, decides to curl his fingers around your hips to pretend, even if only for a fraction of a second, that you’re his. That you’ve wanted this just as much as him, that you need to taste his lips up on your tongue because it makes you feel like you’re starving whenever you break apart for too long.

Your skin is soft underneath the pads of his fingers when you pull him up the stairs of the club, down the street, when you tell him to haul the next cab as you disappear into a small convenience store for a minute. He feels bad for not saying Goodbye to his other friends on the dance floor—they’ll understand, he thinks—and he feels almost sober when something cold prods his cheek a few seconds later.

“Have some water,“ he hears you say, and the odd absurdity of the situation makes his heart do a little flip. “Thanks,“ is all that he manages to reply, throat tied up, fingers curling around the small red plastic cap of the water bottle. He twists it open just before he raises his arm towards an unoccupied cab down the corner of the road, and his heart nearly beats out of his chest when he opens the back door for you, watches you climb inside.

You keep your hand up on his knee the entire ride home.

Jean wonders what he’s done to deserve that.

* * *

The sunlight has a different tinge to it in the afternoon.

Yellow and bright in the morning. Dim orange, still brilliant but not as dramatic, after lunch.

You can tell by the tint up on your walls, by the reflections on your silken bed sheets that it’s late when you awake. There’s no more birds chirping outside, no clattering of breakfast trays and coffee cups from the bakery two stories beneath your balcony.

There’s soft breathing next to you instead. Warm skin pressed up against your own, muscles flexing underneath.

The sensation makes you twist inside your blankets, turn around until you lock eyes with Jean. His hand is outstretched in your direction, and he almost looks petrified when he realises you’re awake.

“Morning,“ you whisper, ignoring the terror written across his face, reaching out to push away a piece of hair that’s stuck to his forehead.

He doesn’t answer immediately, almost as if your voice paralyses him in the early stages of waking, and his momentary apathy allows you to explore the depths of his dark irises underneath the sunlight, blue and brown and golden and green. He’s rigid for another five seconds, maybe six, maybe seven, but then there’s a soft _Good Morning_ stumbling past his tongue, one that makes you realise that maybe you’d like to see him flustered more often.

“Sleep well?“ you question, fingers still tangled up in his hair, and you ignore the way the pit in your stomach seems to sink when Jean tugs himself away from you in disorientation, pushing himself up on the side of the mattress. “Uh, yeah,“ he mutters, kind of more to himself than as an answer to you, and you almost panic when he reaches for his socks strewn across the floor. “I should probably—“

“No,“ you cut him off, and he falters. You know what he’s about to say, and you know you don’t want to hear it, can’t _bear_ to hear it.

“Just come back to bed,“ you mumble, and there’s an edge to your voice that you yourself have never heard before. “Please?“

It’s more of an urgent plea than a command, but Jean doesn’t seem to think about the weight your voice carries when his shoulders drop, and you try and swallow your own nerves when he thinks about it, slides himself back underneath the covers a few seconds later. You reach out to touch his shoulder, his chest, the sides of his belly, to tug him closer into you if only to make sure he’d hear every single word falling from your lips.

“I think I like you, Jean,“ you confess, “I think I’ve always liked you.“

He doesn’t reply with words. Instead you can feel his hand against your side tighten its grip, can hear his breath hitch inside the back of his throat. It’s endearing in a way, and so you dare to go even further, because this is _Jean_ , your best friend, and nothing seems so scary anymore when he tugs your hand a little closer to his chest.

“I know you like me too.“

The statement is loaded, you know that. It feels somewhat selfish to say it out loud, awfully arrogant, too, but you’re aware of the way his heart beats somewhere beneath his ribs, the way it seems to pick up speed whenever you follow down the outlines of his muscles with your pinky.

“You know I’ve been in love with you for the past two years, right?“ he asks eventually, catching your wrist and twisting the joints of his fingers against your own.

“You never told me.“

“I thought it was obvious,“ he laughs, drops his eyes down towards your lips. It splits your mouth in two, the way he’s looking at you, like you’re a piece of fine china and you could crack by having him stare at you too hard, for too long. It makes you want to kiss him again, and so you do.

“Does this mean we’re a thing now?“ Jean murmurs against your lips after you pull away, and you feel an odd perplexity washing over you.

You stay silent for a bit, half-sensible thoughts bouncing left to right inside your head, then you huff a laugh, knot your fingers back into his dark hair. It’s been growing quite long, you notice, and you decide you like it that way.

Jean seems agitated with your silence. The pressure of not yet having received an answer is obvious in the way he shifts a little, in the way he uses his thumb to draw quick shapes onto the back of your free hand.

There’s a noncommittal noise climbing its way out of the back of your throat, past the confines of your teeth. “I think I might need some more time before we make it official,“ you admit, whispering the words against his skin, lips grazing up on the side of his neck. You can feel him shudder underneath your touch, and for a moment or two you’re afraid your answer might disappoint him.

Instead, when you look back up, he’s smiling, with his teeth peeking out from in between his lips. “Don’t make me wait another two years,“ he breathes after a moment, soft, genuine, and you think about how you’ve never seen him this vulnerable, this real.

You give a low hum in response, and his hold on your waist tightens. “Maybe I’ll make it your Christmas present.“

He laughs again, and so do you. The afternoon sun tints his cheekbones golden, his swollen lips a beautiful orange red. You swallow hard. _No regrets_.

“Jean?“ you ask, and you can feel his jaw moving up against your forehead when he answers, “Yeah?“

There’s eyes locking onto eyes, there’s separate hearts beating as one. You lean up to kiss him again. There’s the hint of beer still on his tongue, there’s your stomach tingling and your heart palpitating, and you know you’re feeling all the things you‘re supposed to feel when his hand comes up to cup your cheek and he kisses back with everything he has to offer.

“Happy birthday.“


End file.
